


weightless

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, As close to safe sane and consensual as I reasonably expect Jon/Elias to go, BDSM, Dom!Elias, Dom/sub, Explicit Consent, Finger Sucking, Hair-pulling, Hurt/Comfort, Jon has an absolutely terrible gag reflex, M/M, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Scratching, Subspace, hands tied, sub!Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 10:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16173086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jon has nightmares; Elias helps him sleep.





	weightless

**Author's Note:**

> Set a few days after Jon makes it back from Nicola's kidnapping. 
> 
> Thanks to Kyros, lontradiction, Zomburai, and Teawood for letting me throw excerpts at them and also just for their general status as Enablers. Also, thanks to Michael (no, not that Michael). You know what you did.

            The smell of cheap floral moisturizer rises cloying in Jon’s nostrils. There are hands on him, more hands than there should be, hands along the back of his neck, the bridge of his nose, the backs of his thighs and knees. He thrashes, trying to get away, but even his voice has been taken from him, filtered away through the sodden cloth blocking his mouth. All that comes out is a muffled, broken, desperate groan, and the only response is a plastic laugh.

            It’s abruptly dark, and he still can’t break out of the entrapping grasp, although the feeling of the hands has grown rough and woolen and everywhere. He’s swearing and sweating and desperate, and then—

            “Jon?” Light. The blue-white light of a mobile’s torch app cutting through the darkness, blinding him in an entirely different kind of way. “What on earth are you doing here?”

            And with the mild surprise in Elias’s tone comes lucidity. Jon’s on the cot in the Archives, breathing as hard as if he’s just finished running a mile, surrounded by the overwhelmingly familiar scent of musty paper. He coughs out something that might be a dry sob.

            It takes him a moment to let his breathing calm enough that he’s able to reply. “What, you mean you don’t _know_?” The attempt at sarcasm is somewhat undercut by the chattering of his teeth as he starts working on disentangling himself from the blankets.

            “Contrary to popular belief, Jon, I am not, in fact, omniscient.” A slight quirk of his lips. “Something to my chagrin at times.”

            “As if you needed a more swelled head,” Jon grumbles. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up, pulling one of the blankets around his shoulders, faintly enjoying the rough touch of it on the back of his neck.

            “May I?” Elias asks, gesturing at the bed beside him.

            “If you must,” Jon replies acidly, but he has to admit that Elias’s warmth settling into the space beside him is—distracting, if not actively pleasant.

            “What are you doing here, Jon?” Elias asks again. “Didn’t you recently acquire a new flat?”

            Jon shrugs helplessly. “Yes,” he admits. “I wasn’t sleeping very well there.”

            “You will forgive my observation that you do not appear to be sleeping very well here, either.”

            “I don’t forgive you _anything_ ,” Jon shoots back, then sighs. “At least I…slept at all,” he mutters. “I can’t stop the way my brain keeps—taking me back there. To Orsinov.”

            “Well, that won’t do.” Jon jerks as Elias puts an arm around his shoulders. “You won’t be doing very good work if you’re unable to sleep. Will you let me help?”

            His arm feels nice in that position, but Jon is not going to admit that, nor is he willing to extend anything other than cautious suspicion in response to an offer by Elias. “I take it you’re not going to give me any other information?” he asks.

            Elias’s lips curl up lazily. “I might if you _asked_ me.”

            Growling wordlessly, Jon hunches his shoulders but doesn’t actually shake Elias off. “Right. Fine. _What does that help entail_?” he says and feels a frisson of pleasure as Elias’s eyes go a little wider and a little darker.

            “I was considering touching you in a variety of ways,” he says hoarsely.

            Jon groans. “You’re propositioning me, aren’t you?” But this time there’s no compulsion, and Elias merely smiles a smile that on someone else would be innocent. Jon is extremely aware that this is a bad idea, a really, truly, awful idea. But there’s a quiet little voice in the back of his mind, begging to know exactly what Elias has in store. Begging to _experience_ it firsthand. And another part of him that really would like to make the fear and nightmares go away, if only for a little while. “If I tell you to stop, you’d better stop,” he says darkly.           

            “Of course,” Elias agrees readily, running a careful finger along the back of Jon’s neck.

            “I’m going to regret this,” Jon tells him. “But all right.”

            He expects Elias to grab him, maybe push him down onto the bed, but all that happens is that the hand on the nape of his neck slides upwards into his hair and starts to move slowly through it. Jon shivers lightly at the sensation, because all of a sudden there’s quite a lot of it, soft and pleasant and warm.

            Elias’s nails scrape along Jon’s scalp, and Jon whines without meaning to. Elias makes an interested humming noise, and starts to alternate between petting and scratching in a way that has Jon seeing stars in about thirty seconds. The sensation crawls in lovely, lazy, languid waves across his head, warmth with just a hint of sharpness.

            Then Elias pauses and Jon blinks heavy-lidded eyes that he wasn’t aware had slid shut up at him. “You stopped,” he says, which was not his intention. His intention was to make some statement about the amount of professionalism Elias clearly lacks, but no. _You stopped_. Very useful, Jon. Very coherent. Very—

            Elias grins lazily, gathers up a bunch of Jon’s hair in his hand, and twists. A thousand tiny little pinpricks of pain braid together, almost stopping the breath in Jon’s throat. When Elias’s hand relaxes, Jon stares into the darkness that is the inside of his lids again and wonders when they fell shut, and then, a heartbeat later, another twist, another exquisite rush of sensation.

            He doesn’t know how long it is before Elias stops. It’s just that warm, beautiful darkness everywhere, and then feels like he’s swimming up a long, dark tunnel, and he just barely emerges, feeling loose and limp and melted, to find that he’s sat on the floor between Elias’s legs, and Elias is gently rubbing soothing circles over his back and shoulders. “Any better?” Elias asks, and Jon blinks up at him muzzily. He thinks he could probably speak, if he wanted to, but it would be effort right now, an effort he’s not sure is worth the trouble.

            The side of Elias’s mouth turns up, and he runs a thumb gently across Jon’s bottom lip. Jon takes a long, deep breath and turns his face into Elias’s palm, opens his mouth and leans forward so that he’s swirling his tongue slowly around the first joint of Elias’s thumb. Elias takes a sudden, shaky breath.

            “ _Well_ ,” he says. With surprising gentleness, he tips Jon’s chin up and presents index and third finger, resting them on Jon’s lips and letting Jon be the one to follow the oily, dark floral taste as he licks first the tips and then the knuckles, sucking on them gently but single-mindedly, trying to map out the stains, ridges, and whorls with his tongue. He is faintly offended by the difficulty of finding an obvious pattern in the stains, and irritably nips at the pads of Elias’s fingers as reprisal, which draws a surprised, panting gasp from the other man and causes him to drop his other hand back onto Jon’s head.

            “Aren’t you well-behaved suddenly,” Elias says, although he still doesn’t sound in full command of himself, and Jon is sufficiently himself to bridle at the implications. And yet—he can’t stop the warmth rising in his chest at the praise. Elias’s hand in his hair is stroking him relentlessly, and Jon’s teetering on the edge of that lovely warm emptiness again. He lets Elias move his head back and forth, letting the fingers slip in halfway and back out. Lets Elias slowly rotate him until he’s kneeling between his legs.

            “You have a beautiful mouth, Jon.” Elias’s voice is a little hoarse, and, composed as he still seems, his erection is straining against his trousers. Jon wonders vaguely if he ought to feel guilty, but the desire to know, to see, to experience, is far stronger, as is the realization that he tamps down before it can fully rise, that just for a little while, he doesn’t want to be looking over his shoulder. So he presses forward, pushing against Elias’s muscles, which, for some reason, are resisting him now, puts his hands on the inside of Elias’s thighs, and starts to drag his mouth over the swollen cloth trapping Elias’s cock.

            There’s heat and rough cloth and delightful elasticity, the salty taste/scent of sweat with a slightly heavier twist; there’s so _much_ , and Jon wants all of it, right now, wants to drown in it, burn out his senses until they do nothing but replay and replay and—

            A hand in his hair twists hard enough to hurt and drags him up onto his knees. “Ow!” Jon says indignantly, although the feeling of it twists up to join the others.

            “Experiments require controlled variables, Jon,” Elias chides him. “Now let’s see if you can stick to _one_ source of input, hm? Sit still, if you would.”

            Jon stews, but he sits back on his knees as Elias rises to his feet and doesn’t move as Elias gets to his feet and unknots the tie he’s wearing, as he crosses behind him. The prickling sensation on the back of Jon’s neck isn’t unnerving; if Jon is really honest, the knowledge of Elias’s gaze on him is comforting. It’s safety; it’s a valuation of him that Jon is a little awed to know ends with Elias’s approval.

            He feels warmth at his back as Elias takes his hands, pins them together in his lap, and binds them up with the soft cloth of his tie. “I think we’d better keep those in front of you for today,” Elias says meditatively, and there’s a tiny flutter of sensation against Jon’s right temple that might be his lips, or maybe just his breath.

            Then Elias’s hand is in Jon’s hair again, guiding him forward again even as Elias slips back into place on the bed. He waits for a moment as Elias undoes his belt and pulls down his trousers, freeing his erection, red and leaking and circumcised. Jon puts his head curiously to one side, and, as he meets Elias’s eyes, he catches sight of the blurry reflection of a candle in a window. He’s still blinking with the suddenness of the impression and with trying to discern its source when Elias’s hand is on his head again, and he’s being pulled forward. He just has time to open his mouth and then something much larger than Elias’s fingers is in his mouth, salt and sweat on his tongue.

            Elias tries to pull him farther forward, and his stomach and throat simultaneously rebel at the intrusion; in confusion, Jon tries to breathe through his nose, but the air won’t come, and he’s heaving and coughing and sputtering, hands on the floor to keep himself from collapsing. “Dammit,” Jon manages. “ _Dammit_.”

            “Good boy,” Elias purrs, and Jon chokes again and gives him a baleful look.

            “I am literally about a half second away from throwing up on your dick,” he snarls.

            “Well,” Elias says, smirking in a way that makes Jon want to hit him. “We can’t all be talented at everything. You are a very good Archivist, which is a much rarer talent than lacking a gag reflex.” His hand strokes through Jon’s hair, and Jon melts almost without being able to stop himself. “Come on,” Elias tells him, running a thumb around the edge of Jon’s mouth, and Jon opens his mouth again, trying to breathe through his nose and tip his head into a position where maybe, this time, he actually won’t start gagging.

            He manages a whole five seconds of Elias’s cock this time before his stomach heaves and he has to pull back and start gasping. Elias chuckles in amusement. “You’re doing so well,” he tells Jon, and Jon looks up again, ready to retort, but the dark dilation of Elias’s eyes stops him in his tracks. He may not be particularly skilled, but Elias certainly doesn’t appear unmoved, and the next moment, Elias’s hand twists in Jon’s hair again, drawing a startled moan from his lips, and drags him, firmly, insistently, back to Elias’s cock.

            Elias’s patience does not cause Jon’s gag reflex to miraculously vanish, but his nails scraping at the back of Jon’s neck at least makes Jon determined to keep trying. It’s infuriating, though; he _likes_ the heavy salt-silk sensation of Elias on his tongue, the soft contented noises, the hand tugging and twisting pain-pleasure through Jon’s hair, and to have to keep stopping because of his useless bodily reactions is going to drive him thoroughly up the wall, he’s sure of it. Tears squeeze out of the corners of Jon’s eyes, and he can’t even wipe them away, hands occupied with holding him up and straining against the soft cloth of Elias’s tie.

            And then Elias groans and stills, and finally, Jon is able to hold him in his mouth without gagging, the flesh of the base silky-smooth and warm beneath his tongue. His mouth feels full but light, and when he swallows convulsively, semen slides down his throat, and he’s able to breathe through his nose without that frustrating hiccupping sensation of his airway slamming shut. It’s oddly peaceful, he thinks, as Elias’s hand rests in his hair in a proprietary sort of manner, Elias’s breathing goes from jagged-edged to smooth, and Jon does not move.

            “Very good, Jon,” Elias tells him after a moment, tugging gently on his hair to pull him back. “You’re such a good boy.” Jon basks in both feelings.

            The hand in his hair coaxes him up, and he lets Elias tug him to wobbly feet and pull him forward until he’s on the bed beside Elias, and Elias is leaning forward, and all the air freezes in Jon’s lungs. He feels Elias’s breath on his mouth, the barest brush of Elias’s bottom lip on his, and then he’s pulled away again and being pushed down onto his side. Jon whines, and Elias’s hands play across his hair and the back of his neck and then just _rest_ lightly on his throat for an instant before moving downward. They circle his hips and thighs, worming up under Jon’s shirt, and then the nails dig in and scratch upward, trailing sensation so intense it’s only when it stops that Jon remembers to gulp in a breath.

            Elias’s mouth is on his neck, is on his _spine_ , right over the knobs that protect the river of observation collected from all over Jon’s body and sweeping up towards Jon’s brain. Pinprick needles go through him as Elias bites down carefully, over and over again. He’s barely able to record the rustling noise as Elias’s hands undo his trousers. “You see, Jon,” Elias’s voice says from somewhere far away. “This much sensation is difficult to process all at once.” Sharp dark heat jabs through Jon as Elias nips his ear.

            There’s a finger, slick and cold, circling carefully around his entrance, and Jon jerks as it enters him; he can’t even make a noise. He loses track of his breathing again as the finger twists and then retreats, as Elias’s nails scrape up the tender insides of his thighs. Jon is nothing _but_ the pain; he is nothing but the pain and the slow roll of his hips against the bed, the urgent non-urgency of sensation swallowing even his arousal.

            A hand beneath his shoulder urges him onto his back and then his other side, and he goes willingly, turning his face in the other direction out of some sort of instinctive attempt to balance himself against the dizzying array of input. There’s nothing there, nothing but the darkness extending out into the Archives, and Jon shivers.

            “Jon,” Elias’s voice says in his ear, sounding amused, and he turns his head back to the front, to find that he’s face to face with Elias, whose eyes are dilated wide and dark. Elias leans forward, mouthing at Jon’s lips, but when Jon tries to close the distance between them, a hand in his hair jerks him to a halt. The other hand skims down his stomach and into his trousers, and Jon rolls his hips against it, gasping. “Please,” he manages. “Elias—”

            “Shhhh.” Three more slow tugs in his hair, and he’s lost track again; when he surfaces, Elias has two fingers inside him, moving them slowly in and out. Jon squirms and tries desperately to reach Elias’s mouth. He wants—he _needs_ —

            “You can kiss me if you come,” Elias tells him, in the same tone of voice he might use to tell Jon the proper procedures for travel expense reimbursement outside the country, and Jon swears at him, breathless and dizzy, twisting and twitching underneath Elias’s hand.

            “Language, Jon.” Elias’s bottom lip brushes Jon’s, but once again, as Jon tries to close the distance between them, the hand in his hair yanks him back, and he groans at the new twist of dark, warm sensation, which, for some reason, makes him think of the bite of unsweetened chocolate on the tongue. Elias’s hand works delicately inside Jon, a different sensation with all the same no less of a physical pull, and Jon sobs, bucking his hips desperately.

            “Come on,” Elias breaths in his ear, biting along it and leaving heat in his wake. His nails do the same across Jon’s back and spine, and Jon’s entire body is twisted up into a knot of desperate tension, quivering like a bowstring pulled taut. “Come for me, Jon,” Elias whispers, and one hand twists, and the other drags, and there’s a roaring rush of darkness that carries Jon along and away on it, his last coherent thought the impression of Elias’s wide eyes on his.

            The next thing he’s aware of is a hot mouth on his, and he whines sleepily, moving his mouth in automatic answer. His body is thrumming and relaxed, and he’s having a hard time filtering any of his senses to the part of his brain that he needs to use to interpret them. Slowly, slowly, bits and pieces percolate through the warm, pleasant haze; he feels Elias pressed along the length of him, and the repeated throbbing in his scalp is accentuated by a lazy hand moving gently through his hair. And Elias is still kissing him: that, too.

            After a moment, Jon curls his knees up just to make sure he still knows how to move them and manages to clumsily get his hands up so he can pull Elias closer to him. The kissing is easy and pleasant, and it’s something to focus on so he doesn’t split himself apart trying to catalogue every still-firing nerve all along his head and neck and back and legs. Eventually, he pulls back, and Elias sits up, his hand still laid across Jon’s hair.

            Somehow, Jon finds himself curling up on his side with his head practically in Elias’s lap.

            “My good boy,” Elias murmurs, stroking Jon’s hair and the back of his neck with feather-light fingers.

            “’M not,” Jon growls, aware that the protest lacks force due to his reluctance to remove his face from Elias’s thigh.

            Elias chuckles. “My precious Archivist,” he says, and Jon growls wordlessly and burrows harder into Elias’s leg. The rhythmic movement of Elias’s hand along the back of his neck is still almost overwhelming, and his eyelids are starting to feel heavy.

            “You are a cheating asshole, and I hate you,” he tells Elias firmly. There’s something wet at the corners of his eyes.

            “Shhh,” Elias responds. “I know it’s difficult, Jon. I know.” A calloused thumb carefully flicks away the moisture.

            “I hate you,” Jon murmurs again as his eyes flutter shut. There was some reason he couldn’t sleep, some part of him remembers, but he can’t remember what the reason was now. Can’t remember much of anything but the feeling of Elias’s lips on his, Elias’s hand in his hair, Elias’s full attention centered entirely on him. He’ll need to break down those sensations at some point, put them together into bite-size pieces so he can place some kind of interpretation on them, probably, but for now, all he needs is those feelings. Holding them close to his heart, he lets the drowsiness overtake him, and the last thing he’s aware of before he slips into kindly darkness is Elias’s voice murmuring, “Good night, Jon.”


End file.
